Sick
by Allume a Pense
Summary: So, I guess we got to the point of this unnecessarily long letter. Mitchie, I love you. I'm in love with you. And I just needed you to know that. ShaneMitchie


**i don't know what i'm trying to accomplish with this one.  
****i don't know what emotion it should make you feel.  
****just read & enjoy.**

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Dear Mitchie,

How long has it been?

Well, maybe that's not the best way to start a letter, but I can't help but wonder every day about the answer. I never was good at keeping track of time, you know.

Well, I guess it's been around 3 months or something. That's probably too long for both of us; I mean, texting and a few phone calls can't really make up for the past summer. Nothing can take the place of that, and believe me, I've tried to think of a few things to match. Nothing's ever really came even a little bit close. Crazy, isn't it?

So, there's a point to this letter. I promise. I mean, I'm Shane Gray for crying out loud – I don't write _letters_. Just kidding ...I guess I have to write that down too, seeing as you can't really tell when I'm kidding or not. That's pretty sad. It's been a pretty awkward couple of paragraphs so far, so I think I'm just going to dive right in: Mitch, I've got a lot to say to you, and not that much time to say it.

Summer's on again in 5 months, and I don't know if you're going this year or not, but I hope you know financial issues are no problem. I can take care of anything. Believe me Mitch, I'd do just about anything to see you again. The guys are complaining about me, saying that I need some therapeutical silence daily (Nate calls it 'Shane Time.') mostly because I never shut up about you.

Just as a disclaimer, if you're really not into reading a sappy letter written by a confused teenage guy right now, you might as well stamp a 'return to mailer' sticker to the front of the envelope and stuff it in your mailbox. Or, the trash – whatever's closer, I guess. Just save both of us from the embarrassment. But if you are even a little curious, sit back and keep reading. If anything, this should amuse you.

So, I guess I'll start with the week that we first left Camp Rock. I'd be pretty depressed on the entire drive home, kind of just laying there, and pretty empty inside. I didn't and still don't know what's wrong with me. Obviously I denied that the reason for my depression was because I left you, but my mind is beginning to open to this possibility. The month following this stage was probably my worst time, and everyone else's worst nightmare.

Maybe you know this and maybe you don't, but Nate, Jase and I started our summer tour (that 'conveniently' skips over your town) and spend about ninety-five percent of our time on a bus that smells like Pine Sol and Nate's dusty old song books. As if that wasn't enough to piss me off, the whole issue with, well, you kind of heightened the danger mode. Someone got chewed out on a daily basis. I was definitely worse off then than before I got to Camp Rock.

After _that_, I calmed myself down and started to act more and more like 'Summer Shane'. It really wasn't the same, and this is when I began starting everything that came out of my mouth with "Mitchie used to" or "I remember when Mitchie." And so on so forth. I was sick, and I didn't know with what. My head hurt all the time and there was a nagging, sharp pain in my chest. I often felt dizzy. I couldn't write a decent song – you can thank Nate for our entire new album. When we finally told the on-set doctor that I was feeling pretty bad; he checked me out and couldn't find a thing wrong with me.

Thanks to you, Mitch, I've been popping ibuprofen like tic-tacs under doc's orders.

So now it's been two-and-a-half months after Final Jam. You're in school. I'm in a bus driving through the middle of no where. That day was a pretty bad day for my health; I was nursing a headache and nausea, not to mention was annoyed as hell at Jason for talking loudly on the phone to Ella. It made me sick with jealousy, and I didn't know why. Maybe that's what I was sick with: jealousy.

I thought about the week after I left, and how down I was. Maybe I was sick with grief?

I remember that Nate walked into the very back bedroom and sat on the end of my bed with some sort of brotherly-love, pathetic worried face on. He told me something that is basically propelling the idea to write this to you in the first place: I was _lovesick_.

It's like, _lovesick_?

What the hell is _that_?

He explained that you get lovesick when you're away from someone you care a whole lot about, AKA love. Then Nate left, like that was pretty much all he had to tell me – that I was hopelessly sick with an incurable disease that I'll never be able to fix. It made me realize two things: one, that you have to be in love to be lovesick, and two, that Nate will never make a good doctor.

So now I've got one thing figured out. If you're still reading this Mitchie, you're pretty brave. I sound like such an idiot right about now. I've figured out that I was in love. I started to think about _why_.

The reasons came fast, faster than I can write them down right now. I realized I was in love with a girl named Mitchie Torres. She's this beautiful, talented girl that reminds me each and every day that music comes from your heart, and if it didn't express how you really feel, it wouldn't be magic and it wouldn't be music. I met this Mitchie girl at a place called Camp Rock shortly after becoming near-obsessed with an anonymous voice I heard in the empty mess hall. I remember that I had pretty much bit her head off and she was still clueless enough to talk to a jerk like me. She's got so much charm, bliss and charisma packed into one human being, it's almost unreal. I have to flip through pictures of her and me to remind myself that she's not just another dream.

So, I guess we got to the point of this unnecessarily long letter.

Mitchie, I love you. I'm _in _love with you. And I just needed you to know that.

I wasn't lying when I wrote that song. Maybe I didn't know exactly what I was talking about at the time, but the lyrics just felt right. '_You're the remedy I'm searchin' hard to find / to fix the puzzle that I see inside" _Well, this so-called 'puzzle' happens to be my broken heart, and I guess you're my cure.

No, no 'I guess.' You _are _the remedy for my lovesickness, Mitch. I can't get any clearer than that.

Listen, I'll be at Camp Rock next summer whether I'll see you there or not. I know I'm an idiot and writing this letter from an undisclosed, moving location (AKA the tour bus) and you can't mail back. I might as well also tell you that some girl got ahold of my phone number, and we're in the process of getting a new one. It won't be set up for awhile, though. The next time we'll probably be in contact will be June 20th, should you so be there.

Mitchie, I'll be lovesick until the day I see you smiling (or frowning with disgust at me) again – _in person_. I'm sick, and I can't fix it. It's probably the worst feeling I've ever had in my entire life. But I just had to let you know that there won't be a day that passes by that you don't affect my life somehow. Also, I apologize if you lead a very happy life right now with a faithful and loyal boyfriend who probably wants to punch me.

I love you, Mitchie. I do, and I can't stop myself. It's out of my control.

-Shane

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**i was bored.  
****this deserved a story on its own.  
****please review!!**


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